The Iceman and the Doctor
by fangirlsarejustbetter
Summary: Mycroft is being very cryptic, and John starts to get suspicious. What happens when what started put confusing turns into the best news of John's life? Eventuall, and I mean that, Johnlock, but it will be worth it! (hopefully...) I'm bad at summaries, but the actual thing is better!
1. Chapter 1

The first time John went to see Mycroft was a bit of a surprise. It was two weeks since they had seen each other, at the funeral, for what John had honestly thought to be the last time. After all, what reason would they have to speak now? The one and only thing they shared was Sherlock, and Sherlock was gone now.

But, sure enough, just a fortnight later, John watched as the all too familiar car pulled up beside him. "Anthea", as John knew her, didn't even bother rolling down a window.

It was painful being back in Mycroft's home. John recalled the last true conversation he had had with the elder Holmes brother, besides pleasantries and such, which were the furthest thing from "pleasant" as far as John was concerned.

He sat in the chair across from the Sherlock's brother, and this was all that Mycroft said:

"John, that day, at the hospital, you said you were knocked down by a bicyclist, is that correct?"

John was taken aback by the question, and responded with a slightly akward, "Ermm, yeah, why do you ask?"

Mycroft simply flashed him that infuriating Holmes smile, and replied, "Oh, no reason really. So how much time, would you say, were you… distracted?"

John hesitated for a split second, then answered, "I don't know, 30 seconds, tops. I mean that's a pretty hard thing to be distracted from."

"Hmmm, alright John, thank you for your time. You may go."

And that was that.

The next time, all Mycroft asked was, "John, would you say, as a man who has seen far too much in his lifetime to be sure, that much could happen, and often does, in 30 seconds or less?"

"Oh, to be sure. But I don't think I understand, Mycroft, what are you getting at?" was the doctor's confused response.

"I'll see you soon, John," was the only answer.

It went much the same way for the next couple of months. Mycroft always asked John a question directly relating to the fall, ranging from, "What were Sherlock's exact words over the phone?" (which John thought was a bit ridiculous, seeing as the whole conversation was recorded) to "Do you believe he truly was a fake?" (which he said he did, but did mention he only said that to honor Sherlock's request; Mycroft seemed particularly interested in that), and John would answer, asking why he had to, getting only a "See you soon" or some such as a response. It was painful, talking about his friend like that, all facts and figures and quotes and such, especially since he had started (before the fall, only just) to have less than heterosexual thoughts about his best friend, colleague, flatmate, whatever. But in a way it was nice, talking to Mycroft, who he could rely on to be stone faced, whereas Mrs. Hudson or Molly or even Greg seemed to end with him in tears that night, and often times worse than usual nightmares, if he bothered sleeping at all.

Still, life went on. As it happened, Molly and Greg were engaged to be married, and John was, truly, happy for them. He went on living in Baker Street, though every moment killed him, because Sherlock, sod that he was, somehow got it into his will that part of his money went into paying half of John's rent each month. Not that it really mattered, seeing as the rest of his money, which was far too much to require a flatshare as it turned out, went to John as well, as well as every single other item he owned. Git. Even in the afterlife he fueled the now not-so-unpleasant rumor that they were a couple. Idiot.

One day that was a bit of a turning point in his meetings with Mycroft was on a gloomy looing Friday afternoon. Mycroft and he sat face to face in the elder's office as usual, but this time there were no questions.

"John, I brought you here today to discuss some very important news concerning my little brother. Me and my team have recently uncovered some startling evidence, which will be made clear to you in due time, as to his motivation that day. It is now evident that the man who you know as Moriarty, who has yet to be examined properly claims to the alias "Richard Brook", hired three snipers that day: one for you, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for the recently engaged Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. It is now clear that the operation was run with the sole intent that if they did not see Sherlock jump or get some sort of code from Moriarty himself that each would shoot and kill their intended victim. Once Moriarty realized that Sherlock could potentially be able to get the code from him, he shot himself in tem out, ending his own life and thus ensuring that Sherlock would be forced to jump and seal his image as a fraud. We thought it best to inform you, and I would highly recommend that you talk to Mrs. Hudson and the Detective Inspector as well."

For the first time in over a year John had to fight the urge to laugh. "Look, Mycroft, that's a lovely thought, and I appreciate the…" he almost giggled again. What about today was funny? "…Sentiment, but really, do you think I'm that stupid? The only two people who could possibly know that are both dead, how would you possibly be able to know that? Look, I'll see you around."

Well, maybe there were some questions asked that day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi guys! So here is chapter 2, which was going to be the last chapter, but it went in a different direction than I planned, so there will be a chapter 3 after all. I'm really excited about this story, and apparently other people like it too, so thank you! Alright, that's all folks, enjoy!**

* * *

And then John started to get really suspicious. The questions, or statements, whatever it happened to be that week, always started John's thoughts down a road that he could not let himself start to go down, because if he were wrong he wasn't sure that he could go on, and he meant it this time. And hey, if he was right, best surprise of his life right?

One question caught John off guard. "Surely you are aware of who submitted the official report of my brother's death?"

That was something John had picked up on, how Mycroft referred to Sherlock. It ranged from "my brother" or sometimes even "my little brother" when the topic had to acknowledge his death, "Sherlock" when it was about his life before the fall, or, very rarely, "your flatmate", once even "your friend", when the topic dealt with the consulting detective's personal relationships (John hated to think ill of his friend, but the fact was that that hadn't come up a whole lot).

John answered, "Well, yeah, wasn't that Molly?"

"Indeed, Ms. Molly Hooper. Now John, you are aware of her, to use the widely used term, crush on your flatmate?"

"Oh, yeah. I don't mean to say anything against her, but it was a bit obvious wasn't it?"

"Hmmm. Interesting. Would you say that Sherlock would use this to his advantage, if, say, he needed her help with something?"

"Well, yeah, I mean that wasn't very often though. I suppose he didn't think she could help him with much though. Though I suppose in his eyes no one really could."

There was an awkward pause before Mycroft finally spoke again, "John, I do not want you to answer these questions right away. I require a short break from our little meetings, to attend to some rather important business. Say, a month and a half exactly? Either way, think on this in that time. First, do you really believe that Sherlock would be so unwise as to think himself capable of getting on without the help of others on occasion? And second, not to mention far more importantly, think on what all of these meetings, all those questions, all of those little details I brought to your attention could be concluded as saying. I understand you may be afraid of what you're thinking right now, but be please, I urge you to be rational and think over all the facts that you yourself have stated as true. I'll see you soon."

That was what broke John. He knew that not even Mycroft, who he thought, in his own way, was crueler than Sherlock in many respects, would do that to him. He would not give John, the soldier, hope like that only to take it away from him, because if he did John would be dangerous. And whether to himself or someone else was a question no one particularly wanted to be answered.

When he got home he was so angry he smashed a total of five mugs, all the ones in the house besides Sherlock's, which John had taken to using anyway, and the particular least favorite of the consulting detective. Well the bugger let John think he was alone in the world for nearly two years, that was just the smallest of ways he had come up with to annoy him when they saw each other again.

Oh gosh. They were going to see each other again. He was going to get to see Sherlock again. What would he say? What was there to say? Would they live together, solve crimes together, annoy the heck out of each other again? Could they, when Sherlock would probably deduce John's new affections in an instant? Oh no. John leaned on the wall and slid to the floor, crying, crying like he hadn't in a good long while. Why was it that he should cry when he had never had happier news?

Sure enough, at their next meeting, Mycroft announced, officially this time, that his little brother, who had once wanted to be a pirate, was really and truly alive. This time, Mycroft spared him the "one sentence every two weeks" routine, and proceeded to explain the how, when, why of Sherlock's fake suicide over the course of what managed to somehow be the most boring and the most edge-of-his-seat two hours of John's life. But the visits didn't stop there.

The next time, John was told that Sherlock was staying in Mycroft's mansion, two floors above where John had been meeting the elder Holmes for the past however many months (honestly, he saw the point now in Mrs. Hudson's saying that he really should keep some sort of track of the time), but could not, in fact, see him. Which was infuriating, to say the very least. But, in compensation, they did get a phone call, which went something like this:

"Sh…Sherlock?"

"Oh, yes, um, hello John"

"Oh."

"What?"

"Well, I mean, it's just that… I mean it really is you, isn't it?"

"Yes, John, I can assure you it is."

"Oh. Right then. Good."

*awkward pause*

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to hear about Mary."

"Oh. That's very kind of you Sherlock, I mean it. Thank you."

*more awkward pause, however this time Sherlock is trying to suppress a smile, which is probably a bit not good considering they are discussing his best friend's dead fiancé*

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Wou- would you mind talking to Mrs. Hudson, about all this? Tell her everything, I-I just want her to know."

"Oh. Of course, I mean yeah, if you want."

.

.

"I assume Lestrade already knows about this, what with Molly and all?"

"Oh, yes, I.. I would imagine so. I am sorry John. You know that right?"

John chuckled softly, not because anything was remotely funny about the situation, but because he felt there was simply nothing else he could do in the current situation. "Idiot. I guess I'll talk to you next week then?"

And then he hung up, because he simply didn't need to know whether Sherlock was going to say "Goodbye, John," again or not, and it was better safe than sorry.

The next month went much the same way, a lot of talking with not a lot being said, which somehow still said too much. Each time would leave John almost in tears for no particular reason, besides the knowledge that he was one week closer to really seeing him, and it felt so surreal.

That day Mrs. Hudson made him his favorite breakfast, and neither of them even knew what would be happening later that afternoon. It was John's personal belief that either the universe just decided to make that his day, or Mrs. Hudson had some sort of superpower.

As he was walking home from Tesco's, the too familiar black car pulled up beside him, and they took the normal route to the mansion. However, when the car pulled into the driveway Anthea gave him very odd directions, saying simply, "You know where to go, Mr. Holmes will not be meeting you at the door today," and, this was the odd part, smirked. That set his internal alarm off, he wasn't a total idiot, though being no Sherlock Holmes he could not think of any reason for it.

However, it became apparent as soon as he stepped into Mycroft's office. Oh. That Mr. Holmes.


End file.
